Gone Like Peggy
by Seeing Fire
Summary: *Steggy Oneshot* I came up with this off the top of my head. It's rather depressing, as it takes place at Peggy's funeral. I tried to make it interesting. Please Review!


He straightened the black tie around his neck and smoothed his suit. He went to the bedside table and slipped the compass into his pocket. He walked to the door. Opened it. Closed it.

These were the commands going through Steve's mind as he tried to rid himself of all thoughts, all emotions. _Walk,_he told himself firmly. _Just walk._

Sam had offered to join him. Natasha, too, had called him when she'd heard the news to see if he needed some company. Despite what her enemies said about her, she did really care about things, albeit carefully selected. Steve was thankful for her spontaneous thoughtfulness, yet he still rejected her offer. Some walks you just need to take alone.

Steve lost himself in the sheer noise of New York; the noise which his ears had grown accustomed to hearing, yet now seemed new and strange as he became fully aware of his surroundings. An image flew through his mind of him and Peggy, young and vivacious, walking in the streets, hand in hand, all thoughts and cares of war fallen away, free. He'd never taste that freedom now.

'_I have lived a life. My only regret is that you didn't get to live yours.'_

When Peggy had first said it, Steve had brushed it away, focused on her life rather than his own. Now her words rang in his ears like a terrible orchestra of feeling. She was right—H.Y.D.R.A. had robbed him of the chance to live the life he'd deserved; he'd 'died' for nothing, but lost everything, his family, his friends, and Peggy.

The realisation that H.Y.D.R.A. had taken his Peggy away from him made him angry. Not angry; no, he was far too numb to be truly angry. The anger would set in later. Now, he was only without feeling.

He supposed that H.Y.D.R.A. hadn't taken Peggy; it had taken him: she was able to move on, she'd loved, she'd made a difference; she'd _lived._ Steve, on the other hand, had been stuck in a block of ice for 70 years only to wake up to find that his whole world had changed.

'Sir?'

The cabbie's voice brought him surging back to reality: he hadn't realised how far he'd walked from his apartment room to the streets outside. Flustered, he pulled out (an usually neat) crumpled wad of cash and tried not to stammer out the address. He opened the door and inhaled the smell of stale cigarettes and overripe fruit, an odd smell for a cab, and grudgingly sat down, his muscles refusing to relax. Fortunately, the cabbie seemed to understand that Steve wasn't in the talking mood; whether by the dreary colour of Steve's suit or his unnaturally formal and stiff behaviour, the balding, seedy driver knew to let him be. Steve liked it better that way—he'd always processed information internally, be it of happiness or pain, and functioned far better after he could sort out his emotions on his own.

The tires screeched to a stop outside the gates of an old garden, the wrought-iron gates overtaken by dark ivy. Bees were buzzing amongst the many brightly coloured flowers; birds were singing. Peggy would have liked it here.

Steve hadn't been the first to arrive: there were a good two dozen sniffling, black-clothed people there when he walked towards the gathering. Some were old; some were young, although most were not as young as he. There was a table with a guest book, with a rather long line. He saw pictures of Peggy throughout her long years, and forced away a tear.

A young girl played in the sunlight, with muddy feet and flowers in her dark hair. A bright ten year old posed with her parents, beaming as far as her mouth could stretch; she wore a red beret which her dark-haired father had most likely gotten her. A tall, flowering teenager leaned on a polished wooden chair, in the arms of the bespectacled man, the father who looked so like his daughter; she was stunning in a light coloured dress with her hair pinned up in curls. She wore no smile. Then there was a stunning woman in army uniform, the striking woman Steve had met so many years ago, hard and stern as steel. Then a middle-aged woman with a rather average-looking man and a young child by her side, a small smile on her face. Then she was older—surrounded by two grown adults, to whom she beamed in pride. Her hair was greyer. Then at last, a definitely elderly woman, on a bed, holding hands with the ones whom she loved, with that small smile she'd worn when she'd met Steve.

He skipped the guest book; he didn't care, and he didn't suppose Peggy would have cared, either. A young woman with a gaudy black hat passed him a program of sorts that read, _'Margaret 'Peggy' Carter (9 April 1919-24 November 2014)._ A lump formed in his throat as he forced himself to open the program like a man. He was a soldier. He was strong. He was a soldier.

_A soldier._

A short, wheezy man went to the stand to lead them in 'Amazing Grace' and 'It Is Well with My Soul.' He went on to describe her life; Steve wasn't really paying attention. He caught the phrases 'love of life' and 'strength of spirit,' but he felt those couldn't really describe Peggy—nothing could. She was...Peggy, and Peggy couldn't be described by mere phrases such as those.

Tears began to fall from his eyes without warning—hot, burning tears that fell from his face and marked the program with proof of his pain. And he let them fall; what purpose did trying to conceal them serve? They were a testimony to his pain, and why try to conceal that which is always there?

'If any would like to speak some final words about Ms Carter, please speak them presently', said the wheezy man. Steve had been right to assume he was wheezy—his voice shuttered with frailty and illness. He internally made the decision to publically announce his goodbye, and slowly stood up. The creaking of the wooden chair seemed amplified in the silence of the crowd; Steve might have felt awkward about walking up alone if he hadn't indeed felt alone. Slowly, hesitantly, he stood at the podium.

'Umm...Hi.'

He silently cursed himself for his awkwardness: the audience stared up at him with red eyes, watching, waiting. He swallowed, and continued.

'I knew Peggy, a pretty long time ago. When I first met her, I was a 100-lb asthmatic who could barely do a push up without going collapsing on the ground. But Peggy believed in me, always, and I owe her that.'

The audience continued to stare at him, wondering where he was taking these little anecdotes. Steve made note of a man standing in the back, his head down, looking so out of place, and decided to tell his story to that man only. That man was the only person in the proximity who mattered, the only one who could possibly feel as out of place as Steve did now.

'Obviously, I'm not a 100-lb asthmatic kid anymore. But the only reason I got here is because of Peggy, because, despite all of her responsibilities and hardships, she was always there for me, even when I lost my best friend, when I lost everything.

'I'd hoped that, when I found her again, that I'd have the chance to repay the favour, that gift of generosity she gave me when I needed it most, but I didn't. I always just wanted to do what's right; I try to be a man of my word, who always pays back debts, and while I get that I'll never be able to repay that gift to her here, on this earth, I can try to spread her legacy of kindness and strength wherever I go, and I guess that'll have to be enough for now, until I see her again. But I know that here, now, I can truly say, "Peggy, thank you."'

The guests continued to stare at him in silence as he made his way from the podium back to his seat, but then one began to clap, and then another, and then another, until the whole audience was clapping for him. Steve did nothing but nod to them, unable to do any more.

An hour later, the memorial service had finished, guests were starting to disperse. But Steve remained in his seat, trying hard not to fall apart. He opened his compass to see Peggy, his dear, wonderful Peggy, staring up at him. 'I promise you now, Peggy', he whispered to the portrait, 'when I see you up there, I'm going to take you dancing. We'll dance, Peggy, just like I promised. And you'd better be waiting for me up there when I come.' He closed the compass and pressed it to his lips, an unnaturally emotional gesture for the hero soldier, but he didn't care. He turned to see the misfit man leaving through the wrought-iron gates.

A flash of silver. Just one flash of silver on his left hand. Steve's instincts, clouded by the emotional pain of the day, were sluggish and he was slow to stand and follow the man, who had turned so that Steve could see his eyes.

_His_ eyes. Those grey eyes that had been there for him even when he'd had nothing. Steve leapt up to follow him, but his mind was slow, and by the time he got to the iron gates, his old friend was gone.

The whole time. Bucky had literally been standing right in front of him _the whole time._ And now he was gone, like his family, and his friends. Gone, like Peggy.


End file.
